


Practice Makes Perfect

by Saesama



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Overly descriptive fight scene, Showing Off, Sparring, here we have the insect stick mantis roach commencing his own mating ritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saesama/pseuds/Saesama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You didn't think Bog just came up with all of those spinney moves on the fly, did you?</p>
<p>(Or, that one time Marianne interrupted practice)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice Makes Perfect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selkie_de_Suzie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkie_de_Suzie/gifts).



> Hey Sae, did you know a drabble is 100-1000 words, not four pages?
> 
> http://suzie-guru.tumblr.com/post/135694596788/bogking-hipgif

Marianne heard Bog long before she saw him. Buzzing wings, short grunts, and the occasional clank of metal told her Bog was practicing with his staff, somewhere in the fortress. She followed the sound through the winding hallways, lazy in her exploration, mapping Bog’s sounds to imagined movements. He was practicing something, the same patterns of noise repeating. As she got closer, Bog got clearer, and the reset of his pattern was marked with grumbled but spirited cursing.

A last curve led her into a broad, columned room, and possibly the most delightful thing she’d ever seen.

There were a few dummies made of pussywillow scattered throughout the space and Bog stood before one, hefting his staff as if he weren’t intimately familiar with its weight. Marianne stared for a moment then darted up, hoping to watch him without being spotted. She curled her arm around one of the branching column tops and stuffed her other fist against her lips to muffle any noises she might make. Bog didn’t notice her, too busy glaring at his staff. He looked at the dummy, scowled, took a step back.

The he moved.

Watching Bog fight when he wasn’t trying to take her head off was always amazing. He might not know what to do with himself or all of his limbs when someone was in his space and _not_ trying to kill him, but give him a weapon and a target and he was all grace and deadly confidence. He swung his staff out at shoulder level - an attack to the face, forcing the enemy to duck down or back - and followed the momentum into a low spin, coming back around with the staff a hand’s breadth above the floor - if they were too slow to recover, it’d take their feet right out from under them. He kept the spin going, curving in as he came around a second time, his arm following the long line of his body to flip his staff high into the air as he twisted around the dummy, his wings flared around him.

Marianne could see exactly what he was going for. She could also see where he messed up. If the move went off correctly, Bog would have ended with his staff in hand and pointed at the back of the dummy’s neck. It was a flashy, showy move that proudly displayed his speed and dexterity without being _completely_ pointless. But with a still dummy, he had to pull the first two swipes in short, which meant he had to put too much oomph into the toss to launch it far enough to catch again. If the dummy moved, he could pull everything in tighter. As it was, what should have been a graceful twirl of his staff became an ungainly flight and it didn’t arc neatly into his hand as it should. A neat catch would give him the momentum to spin with one last time and end the move.

Instead, the staff landed badly and he caught the butt end with his shin.

Marianne bit her knuckle as Bog swore explosively, flitting into the air to take weight off of his leg, his staff clanging to the ground. He curled up to rub at the offended limb with one hand, his lips turned down in a pained grimace, and the sheer _betrayal_ in his face as he glared at his staff made Marianne lose it. She sputtered against her fist, her shoulders heaving with suppressed laughter. Bog started, whipping around with wide eyes, and his uninjured foot scooped his staff off the ground and back into his hand.

This was on the fast track to becoming the best day of Marianne’s life.

Caught out, Marianne drifted to the floor, doing absolutely nothing to hide her hilarity. Bog dropped his ready stance and he was _pouting_ , his face twisted with displeasure as he watched her approach. “Is there something I can help you with, princess?” he asked, his words cool to the point of being frosty, but with too much petulance for Marianne to take him seriously.

“Oh, no, not at all,” Marianne replied, light and airy just to needle him further. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your twirling practice; by all means, continue.”

Bog scowled and pointed his staff at her. “If you’re going to mock,” he started.

“Careful with that thing,” Marianne cut him off. “I like my shins unbruised, thanks.”

Bog swatted at her hip with the staff’s head and Marianne cackled, dodging up and out of the way. Bog spun on his heel with a sniff, the very picture of offended royalty, and Marianne settled over his shoulders, her hands draped down his chest. “It’s okay,” she said, brushing her nose along his ear. “I won’t tell anyone you practice flipping that thing like an elf dancing with a daisy.”

Bog growled, but she could feel some of the offended tension slip out of his shoulders as she kissed the side of his neck. “Big words for a small fairy,” he grumbled. “Especially since I have it on good authority that you have _scars_ from trying your own sword tricks. All I ever get are bruises.”

Marianne paused, her lips pressed against his lobe. “Dawn’s a traitor,” she said flatly.

His jaw shifted beneath her mouth as he grinned. “Is it true you almost lost a toe trying to kick it at your target?”

“This is treason,” Marianne groaned, peeling herself off of Bog’s back. “High treason, slander against the throne. Your Majesty, I need to borrow a few guards so I can storm the fairy castle.”

“I’m sure your father would _love_ that,” Bog drawled. 

“I’d tell him it’s a training exercise for the guards.” Bog huffed a laugh as he turned towards her, and Marianne gestured at his staff. “Try me.”

Bog curved a leafy brow at her. “Come again?”

“Your little spinney move; try me.” She rolled her shoulders and drew her sword. “It’s not working with a still target. If you can launch it straight up instead of having to fling it, you stand a better chance of not breaking your own legs.”

“And a good chance of breaking yours,” Bog retorted. “I’d be moving too fast to pull the first blows, Marianne; if I hit you, it’s going to _hurt_.”

Marianne stared at Bog, long enough that he started to twitch, obviously trying to figure out what he said wrong. “Bog,” she said slowly. “Are you telling me you _hold back against me?_ ”

Bog’s brows slammed together in a scowl. “Of course not, Marianne,” he snapped. “But if I think I’m going to actually hit you, yes, I’m going to pull the shot.” Marianne opened her mouth to tell him where he could stick his concern, but he spoke again before she could. “You can’t tell me you don’t do the same; I can think of at least twice when I should have been skewered and wasn’t.”

“Well, obviously,” Marianne rolled her eyes, “I’m not trying to kill you, after all.”

Bog twisted his staff between his fingers, glancing light off of the ornate head. “And I suppose this’ll just tickle?” he asked sarcastically.

“I'll show you what tickles,” Marianne retorted, dropping into a crouch, her sword in hand.

Bog sighed. And swiped his staff at her.

Marianne ducked, ready for the second swing, but Bog pressed her instead of twisting. Marianne parried and danced back, her wings flared for balance as Bog pursued her across the floor. It took her a few desperate swings to get her footing, but before long they were moving as a pair, a lovely, deadly dance that made her feel more alive than anything else. One of these days, she was going to convince Bog to fight her in the Great Hall of her home, with a full orchestra playing.

Bog attacked high, low, dodged her thrust, then spun into the high swing of his new move. Marianne ducked and this close, she could see the strain of the narrow tendons in his arms and the way his chest plates flexed with the motion. He was already coming back around for the low sweep before she could fully recover and she gave an awkward hop into the air. Flashy or not, he was putting his full strength into those swings. No wonder he was concerned with hitting her; this was a finishing blow. Those who could avoid decapitation probably wouldn't be able to avoid shattered ankles. And for those that avoided both-

The staff flew high, barely missing her nose as he threw it. Bog grabbed her arm and spun past her, a blur of scales and glittering wings and she stumbled forward. She got her footing again and twisted, knowing he was behind her and his staff was coming down and-

She was a heartbeat too late. Bog’s staff gleamed, the ornate head a hair’s breadth from her cheek.

For those that avoided both, humiliation if he was merciful, a killing blow if he was not.

Marianna gave a slow exhale. She was terrified and exhilarated and she couldn't think of a time that she wanted him more. He didn't move, his eyes blazing like summer lightning, until she dropped her sword. Then he _smiled_ , slow and smug, and spun his staff around his fingers. “You're right,” he said, mild like his chest wasn't heaving in exertion, “that does work much better against a live target.” His smile widened a fraction. “What do you think?”

_Not bad_ , she meant to say. “I'm going to kiss you now,” fell out of her mouth instead.

Bog blinked, smug to bemused, and Marianne launched herself at him, her arms around his neck and her knees between his waist and the high ridge of his thigh armor. Bog stumbled back with her weight, kicked the end of the staff he was still trying to keep a hold on, and sent them both crashing to the ground.

The air whuffed out of Bog’s lungs as Marianne landed on top of him. She giggled into the side of his neck and he slid his arm around her waist with a weak groan. “How could I ever think I was the deadlier one?” he asked the ceiling. “When she’s over here, trying to kill us both?”

Marianne blew a raspberry against his throat, then caught his startled protest with her mouth against his. “I’ll just have to keep throwing myself at you until you you can catch me,” she pointed out, grinning against his determined pout. “Practice makes perfect, right?”

“You’re insufferable,” Bog complained, but she could feel him fighting a smile as he kissed her back.


End file.
